Mr. Jocelyn Thew descended presently from his taxicab outside one of
the largest and most cosmopolitan hotels in New York--or the world.
He made his way with the air of an _habitue_ to the bar, the precincts
of which, at that time in the late afternoon, were crowded by a motley
gathering. He ordered a Scotch highball, and gently insinuated himself
into the proximity of a group of newspaper men with whom he seemed to
have some slight acquaintance. It was curious how, since his arrival
in this democratic meeting-place, his manners and deportment seemed to
have slipped to a lower grade. He seemed as though by an effort of
will to have lost something of his natural air of distinction, to be
treading the earth upon a lower plane. He saluted the barkeeper by his
Christian name, listened with apparent interest to an exceedingly
commonplace story from one of his neighbours, and upon its conclusion
drew a little nearer to the group.

"Say," he exclaimed confidentially, "if I felt in the humour for it I
could hand you boys out a great scoop."

They were on him like a pack of hungry though dubious wolves. He
pushed his glass out of sight, accepted one of the drinks pressed upon
him, and leaned nonchalantly against the counter.

"What should you say," he began, "to Miss Katharine Beverley, the New
York society young lady--"

"Sister Katharine of St. Agnes's?" one of them interrupted.

"Daughter of old Joe Beverley, the multi-millionaire?" another
exclaimed.